Civil Disobedience and Clinical Behavior
by nyssa123
Summary: First Class AU- Charles and Erik meet up when Erik is in jail for assaulting a police officer at a protest and Charles is his court-ordered therapist. Erik/Charles slash.
1. Chapter 1

Charles has never seen someone make an orange jumpsuit look so appealing.

And good God, that's hideously inappropriate, and maybe he should just leave now and tell them to assign another psychologist. But then the man in the chair fixes Charles with that cold grey-eyed stare and somehow he knows that if he leaves now he'll regret it for the rest of his life.

He settles into the shaky folding chair, making a concerted effort not to wince as it scrapes across the concrete floor. "Hello, Mr. Lensherr. My name is Doctor Charles Xavier. It's good to meet you."

Lensherr raises an eyebrow. "I wish I could say the same."

"Ah, yes, well." Charles lets out a nervous laugh. "The court has mandated that you have regular psychiatric evaluations, so-"

"I know what the court says. I was there for the sentencing, thank you." He bites out. Clearly, he doesn't suffer fools gladly. Charles makes a mental note to suppress his habit of stating the obvious. "Can we just get this over with?"

"Of course. Sorry." He shuffles his papers. "Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself, Mr. Lensherr- Can I call you Erik?"

"You may not." Lensherr leans back in his chair. Charles falters for a second.

"Well then…" He takes a deep breath through his nose. "Why don't I tell you about myself, then?"

Lensherr stares at him, languidly unblinking. "I really don't care what you do." Despite his calm demeanor, his eyes are flashing steel, and Charles is reminded why the guards had him remove all the metal from his body before coming in.

"Okay then." He clears his throat. "I was born in England, but my family moved to Westchester when I was seven. My middle name is Francis. I-"

"How old are you?"

Charles fumbles his words, startled by the interruption. "What?"

"How. Old. Are you?" Lensherr looks at him like he's an idiot, pronouncing the words slowly.

"Um… twenty-nine."

Lensherr raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little young for your job?"

"If you could look at my credentials," Charles glares, "You would find that I'm more than qualified to handle your case."

"This is pointless. Please call the guard and have him return me to my cell." Lensherr tugs his wrists for emphasis, rattling the plastic bindings cuffing him to the chair.

Sweat beads on Charles' forehead, and he really didn't want to do this, but he's got to establish a rapport with Lensherr somehow. This is the last card he has left to play.

"I'm like you, Erik. I'm a mutant."

The convict stares at him for a second, then lets out a harsh laugh. It's a laugh utterly devoid of humor. "Oh, that's just brilliant. Let's see it, then, what've you got? Can you shoot lasers from your fingertips? Can you fly?" He cranes his neck to blatantly examine Charles' trousers. "Are you hiding a tail in there?"

Charles puts a hand to his temple, and if one hadn't known better they would have thought that he was nursing a headache. But then Lensherr goes pale and Charles presses harder on his forehead, the feeling of hair brushing against his knuckles fading in comparison to the sensation of the man across from him.

**I'm a telepath. I know it's not as impressive as manipulating metal, but you asked.**

He's being especially careful to only brush the surface of Lensherr's mind- no, Erik's mind- but even treading softly he can see Erik's life. The man wears himself on his sleeve, all of his emotions broadcast at a high frequency. By the time Charles pulls out, the image of numbers inked indelibly onto a pale arm is burned into his memory forever.

Erik is stock still across from him, eyes wide and body trembling. "Stay out of my head."

Charles nods. "Of course. I respect your privacy, Erik. I would never open a locked door unless you gave me the key." He doesn't mention that with him he doesn't need to.

"I-" It's taking Erik a moment to gather himself. "Do you realize what you're doing? You're betraying your people!"

"I'm not. I believe that mutants and humans can live together peacefully, side by side."

"You're naïve."

"I'm just optimistic. If I can co-exist then so can you." Charles runs a hand through his hair. "You're going to have to learn, if you want to get out of here in four years."

Erik turns his head away, and it's clear that the session is over. Charles sighs and stands up.

"I'll see you next week, Erik. Alright?" There's no response, but a gentle pulse of thought tells Charles that it is.

That night, alone in his fourth floor apartment, Charles dreams of an angry, beautiful man in an orange jumpsuit.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you have the cigarettes?"

Charles digs in the pocket of his tweed jacket for a moment before slapping the crumpled cardboard packet down on the table triumphantly. "I promised, didn't I?"

"That you did." Erik leans forward and lets Charles position the cigarette between his lips, mumbling as Charles flicks his lighter. "You're a saint."

"Stop talking, you stupid bugger. I can't get this to catch unless it isn't moving."

Erik grins, biting down on the paper and tobacco silently. The end sparks and smoke begins drifting into his lungs, heady and thick. He wriggles in his seat to get his cuffed hands up high enough to hold the cigarette between his thumb and index fingers and blows smoke into the stagnant air of the holding cell.

"That's more like it. You wouldn't believe how miserable I've been, Charles."

The therapist rolls his eyes. "I said I was sorry I forgot them last time."

"I had to go for a week without them. A week. That's like a month in prison years!" Erik's only half-joking, and it isn't hard to see his thankfulness at finally getting nicotine into his system. For Charles it's even easier to feel, the relief rolling off him in waves. He fixes Charles with a serious look. "Thank you."

"It wasn't a problem. Really."

They've been meeting for almost a year, now. Every Tuesday at four in the afternoon Charles swipes his ID pass at the door and three guards lead Erik from his solitary cell to the mirror-walled room and they sit and talk. A lot of the time they argue, but they spend an equal amount of time playing chess on the wooden board Charles has started carrying around in his suitcase.

Charles watches Erik smoke and wonders how this happened. They probably never would have met outside of the prison. Charles is an academic- quiet and wordy and still hiding the presence of his x-gene from all but his closest friends- and Erik is a soldier- broken and angry and proud and defiant. If Erik hadn't fought back when the police started bashing heads at his protest then he never would have ended up in jail for assaulting an officer. If Charles hadn't taken the job to show his co-workers that he was just as capable as them despite his young age, he never would have gotten assigned to Erik's case.

So it goes.

Charles knows that this is all wrong. He knows that he should probably resign from Erik's case. It's incredibly unprofessional to do what they're doing- to cross the line from subject to friend. Because Erik iis/i his friend, now, there's no denying it. When one of them is angry with the other they'll sometimes slip back into the hostile, clinical relationship from when they first met, but Charles has apologized to Erik, and Erik has done the same, and that's not something that patients and doctors do.

And Charles still dreams about Erik, even a year on. Part of him wants to peek into the other man's mind and see if he's had a similar effect on his subconscious, but the rest of him is far too scared.

Erik taps his cigarette on the edge of the desk, dropping ash to the surface. "You're awfully quiet today."

Starting from his reverie, Charles can feel a blush starting to crawl up his face. "Sorry, my mind was elsewhere." It's a lie: His mind is here. It's always here, even when he's left and gone home. Especially when he's left and gone home.

"How are things?" Erik makes small talk as he smokes casually. If not for the jumpsuit and handcuffs one could almost believe that he was at a café, nonchalantly free. "Have you gotten around to buying a new toaster yet?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid." Charles' last toaster had died in a spectacular fiery short circuit, taking part of his cramped kitchen wall with it. He'd related the story to Erik, who for some reason found it hilarious. "How are you?"

"Oh, not bad." He reaches up to scratch his eyebrow, wincing slightly as his fingernails scrape against the fading bruise that blackens his left eye. He points at it. "This is getting better. So that's nice."

Charles speaks into Erik's mind, not wanting to be heard**. The guard. The one that hit you. Has he been bothering you again? **

Erik frowns and stares down as he takes a drag of his cigarette. **No. I haven't seen him since last week**. He shoots a suspicious glare at Charles**. That wouldn't have anything to do with you, would it?**

**Not at all**, Charles lies.

**I can fight my own battles, Charles; I've been doing it my whole life.**

**I know, my friend**. He holds back the urge to sigh.** I know.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm going to Hell**, Charles pants against Erik's mouth, his hands fumbling on the other man's buttons. **I'm going straight to Hell.**

**Well, at least I won't be lonely. **There's a laugh in Erik's voice as he reaches down to caress Charles' stomach, pulling his shirt out from where it's tucked unto his pants.

To the casual observer, the bored guard who may glance in at Erik's cell, it looks for all the world like he's sleeping: Eyes closed, breath even, curled into a ball to face the wall.

To someone who could see Charles, although he's alone in his apartment and no one will, he looks calm and peaceful, spread out on his bed bonelessly.

No one would ever guess that they were together, even though they were miles apart.

This is one of the boons of telepathy, they've discovered. They can do more than just talk without being heard- they can touch and taste and see.

It's been a few months since Erik admitted that he'd had dreams about Charles. A few months since that first tentative kiss, the image Charles conjured up for them to share in their heads making both gasp. Since then they've spent nearly every night together. It's the strangest relationship either of them have ever had, and one of the best.

Charles knows that they're far beyond boundaries now. Despite Erik's encouraging he knows now that he can't be open about his mutant ability without facing scrutiny from the others- from his co-workers, from the prison guards. Truthfully, he's less worried about prejudice and more worried that someone might get suspicious- that they'd fire him, make some sort of device to block his thoughts from Erik. That they wouldn't be allowed near each other.

**Stop worrying**, Erik says as he presses their bodies' flush, making Charles moan. **Nothing is going to happen.**

They kiss, and it's wet and warm and slow like they've got all the time in the world.

**I just realized**, Charles whispers against the skin of Erik's shoulder as the other man presses into him, his voice choked and desperate, **I just realized that tonight is our anniversary.**

Erik pauses for a moment, stilling, before resuming with a hard claiming thrust that sends sparks exploding in Charles' eyes. **Yes.**

**Only two more years to go.**

_**Yes.**_

Erik makes love to him like a drowning man clings to a life raft. It's always like this, no matter how many nights they spend inside each other, around each other. It's desperate and hard and fast and Charles wouldn't trade it for anything.

Erik murmurs to him in German, his breath hot on the shell of Charles' ear. **Ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich, **wenn du mich verlässt**, sterbe ich.**

**I'll never leave you, Erik. **His back arches as another thrust hits him right, _just there_, and they're falling apart within each other.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik frowns, carefully maneuvering his bishop so that his unwieldy handcuffs don't knock over Charles' knight. "Look, I'm just saying, you can't expect the movement to make any progress unless you actually do something. We have to take action against the prejudice or we'll end up as slaves."

"We've had this conversation before. You know I don't agree." Charles purses his lips and captures one of Erik's rooks. "Check."

He moves his king out of the line of fire. "You always say that we should try to work for our rights, but you never even acknowledge that you're one of us. Doesn't that seem hypocritical to you?"

"If you're going to be like this today then I'll go home."

Erik shakes his head. "No, sit back down. I just-" He looks around the room, watching their reflections move in perfect synch. "I just wish you would be more open about it, Charles. You have a gift, and it seems like such a waste to keep it hidden."

"I don't hide." Charles rubs his thumb over the ridges of his knight's carved wooden mane.

"How many people out there know what you can do?"

"My sister knows. My parents knew." He looks up from under his eyelashes. "You know."

One of the black pawns shines under the room's harsh fluorescent lights. Erik grips it tightly. "I just wish you could be open about it."

Charles smiles ruefully. "That's the world we live in, I'm afraid. We have to take small steps, Erik. We can't just rush in headfirst and expect to be accepted. These things take time."

Erik doesn't answer. Instead he moves his bishop, sliding it across the checkered board and capturing Charles' queen.

"Checkmate."

Erik's words eat away at Charles. He tries to pretend that they don't, that he isn't affected by his companions' more radical point of view, but some days their conversations about mutant rights stay in his mind long after the actual words have faded.

Charles doesn't want to hide. He wishes just as much as Erik that he could live with his power like it wasn't important. There are days when he feels scared, after seeing footage on the television or hearing Erik's horror stories about police brutality. He still believes his own ideas, his ideas about small steps and waiting until the time is right, but when he sees the tattered paper on the corner of 6th Avenue with the word PROTEST emblazoned in black and white letters, he can't help but stoop and pick it up.

It's an underground newspaper, by mutants, for mutants, and as he reads about the demonstration planned for Saturday afternoon he begins thinking. It will be a peaceful protest, the article says. A march through the park, down some streets, with mutants from all walks of life carrying signs and chanting slogans. Support. Pride. Freedom. Acceptance. That's all they want; isn't it all that anyone wants?

He doesn't mention it to Erik that night, as they make love with their minds. He still hasn't decided whether or not to go, and he doesn't want to get the other man's hopes up. Still, he thinks to himself as they breathe together, it will be a pleasant surprise for him at their next meeting if he does.

Things get ugly very, very fast.

One minute Charles is crowded between a young woman with purple skin and crystalline eyes and a man whose cat-like tail keeps swishing back and forth, soaking in the excitement and nervousness and camaraderie of the people around him. The next there is yelling and panic and a harsh, pressurized jet of water knocking them back. Women and men who have fallen struggle to their feet, clothes soaked, nursing bruised knees and elbows as the crowd surges backwards. There are rocks being thrown and Charles sees a young boy, barely a teenager, sink to the ground with his head bleeding.

Charles has never felt this scared before in his life. And of course it's not just his fear; it's the fear of the other protesters, the fear of the police, the fear of the people on the street. He hears fragments of thoughts- **FreaksMonstersGoawayNotinmy cityHelpmeMybaby-**

He tries to get away, to get back from the policemen with their hoses and sticks, but the surging crowd is impossible to get through. There is no breaking through the panicked wall of bodies, and Charles knows now that this was definitely not a good idea.

Someone from the huddled group of protesters throws a stone at the police. And that's when the bullets start.

That's when the screaming begins.

Charles knows that the police are supposed to be using rubber bullets- he's done his research- but when he sees a woman go down clutching her bleeding shoulder with a pale, shocked face, he can see that something has gone terribly wrong.

He runs. It's the only thing he can do. He tries to get away, his instincts taking over, and he's almost at the mouth of the alley, nearly to safety, when-

Something slams into his back and he hits the pavement, gravel scraping his cheek raw. Someone is screaming like a dying rabbit and he realizes, with a jolt of terror, that it's him. He lies there, sobbing, simultaneously knowing and not knowing what has happened to him.

**Nonononono.** The thoughts run through his brain like a never-ending mantra. **Nonononono, help me, please, someone help me!**

**Charles? Charles, what's going on? **Erik rings through his mind like a bell, and Oh God, Charles didn't realize that he had established the link. He didn't mean to send Erik those thoughts, but it hurts it hurts so much…

**Charles, speak to me, what's wrong?**

**I can't feel my legs. **Charles shakes, facedown on the New York City street, with chaos around him and a voice in his head. **I can't feel my legs. **

And then everything goes white, and he is lost.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik limps as the guards shove him into the room, cuffing him to the chair with his arms twisted behind him, his face is a mass of bruises and cuts. Charles sits across from him, leaning heavily on the table and watching the procedure silently. They stare at each other, not saying a word, until the guards have left and the door is locked behind them.

Erik pitches forward, straining against his bonds as Charles reaches out to touch his face. "Nothing. Nothing at all. For four weeks, Charles." He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to let the tears slip through. "I thought you were dead."

"I'm so sorry, my friend. I didn't mean to make you worry, I just… I had to shut off for a while." He strokes Erik's cheek, running his hands over the other man's bruises.

Taking a shuddering breath, Erik tries to even out his voice, pushing the panic away. "The last thing you said. Before- before everything went quiet, you said you couldn't feel your legs."

Charles draws his hand away. "It's not important. I'm fine, Erik."

"What was going on? I tried to find out but you know what it's like here, no one tells us anything."

He lets out a soft laugh. "I went to a protest. It was one of the ones organized by the Mutant Liberation Front, and we got attacked by the police."

Erik stares. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have warned you not to go, the police always hit the MLF's demonstrations, it's because their president used to make bombs for the IRA and they're always worried he's going to stir up trouble, _you should have told me, Charles_-" He cuts himself off, realizing that he's ranting, and ducks his head down, rubbing a damp eye against his shoulder. "Jesus."

"I'm sorry, Erik, I just wanted to understand." Charles frowns, running a hand through his hair. "I wanted to see where you were coming from."

"Did they hurt you?"

"I-" Charles wavers, and the hesitation is enough to make Erik terrified. "It's not important."

"Oh God." He feels the familiar tang of fear on his tongue, bile rising in his throat. "Charles, stand up, come here, please." He lunges forward, trying to get closer. "Please, Charles!"

"I can't, Erik." He reaches out to grab his shoulder, steadying, supporting. "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."

"I'm going to kill them. They all have to die, they have to, they did this to you!"

"No, it's not like that, it was an accident-"

"That is NOT a FUCKING accident, Charles!"

**Please, my friend,** Charles speaks into Erik's mind, trying to be heard over the anger raging and boiling inside. **I need you now more than ever. I need you free and alive and not rotting in jail. Please try to understand, Erik, I need you to be with me. **

"Why are you so calm?" His body shakes, his cuffs rattling against the chair. "How?"

**I'm not. But I'm trying to be the better man.**

Erik coughs bitterly. "Better than me?"

Charles shakes his head. "No. Better than them. If we react with anger every time we are wronged, all we accomplish is war. But you were right, and I see that now."

"You do?"

"Yes." An image breaks into Erik's thoughts: the two of them, together, hands clasped. "We shouldn't have to hide anymore. We deserve to be free to exist as ourselves."

"Mutant and proud." Erik smiles ruefully. Charles returns the smile, but on his face it is genuine.

"Mutant and proud."


	6. Chapter 6

Erik has really only ever entertained the thought of breaking out three times. He's an activist, not a criminal, and it's part of his job to remain a symbol of the cause; becoming a fugitive isn't going to help anyone. And while prison certainly isn't easy, he's been through much worse.

The first time he thought of it, he wasn't even in jail yet. It was during the trial, sitting behind the hard wooden benches, watching himself be condemned by lawyers and judges and juries. It would be so easy to just bend the light fixtures in the room, to hold the police officers back by their forgotten cufflinks and tie clips and run. He could get a car easily, picking locks with a twitch of his fingers. It would be so simple to just get away.

But there were a million things that could go wrong. Erik isn't an idiot. He can tell when the odds are against him, and despite the fact that he's a risk taker he isn't a gambler. Would it be worth it, fleeing, just to be killed ingloriously is he was caught, or worse, branded a coward if he got away? Would he be seen as a traitor to his cause if he ran, an example to the humans of why mutants weren't to be trusted?

No. He couldn't let that happen. So he sat quietly and received his sentence and behaved like a good little convict.

The second time was when the guard beat him. It was a regular occurrence in the prison, especially with the inmates who had been involved in activism. The guards saw rebellion in them and knew that to control them that rebellion had to be crushed, that spark of individuality bled out like a disease. On his first night, Erik had watched the man in the cell across from him, a Black Panther, as the warden's finest kicked in his ribs. On his second night, they had come for him.

The guards weren't stupid. They knew not to wear metal around Erik, and they were careful to remove anything that could give him the upper hand before coming in. Their nightsticks were hard rubber, their boots leather and canvas and plastic. They hit him so hard that he literally saw stars. When he woke up the next morning, he couldn't even stand to get his meal. He had to crawl to his cot, smearing a trail of his own blood on the concrete floor.

Erik was no stranger to beatings, but it had been a long time since he had been so helpless. For the first time in years he had dreamed of his mother, and he had woken to a damp pillow and an aching body.

The tactics that the guards had used to break so many other prisoners only made Erik stronger, though. After the first few nights of pain and torment, he started to laugh when they hit him. He would joke as their fists pounded into his stomach, making sarcastic comments as he wiped the blood away from his nose. It disconcerted the men to such a degree that they started leaving him alone. He only got beatings now when he purposefully misbehaved or allowed them to see his weakness- which wasn't often.

The third time Erik had thought of breaking out was when he met Charles. He had hated the man at first, thought him insulting and naïve and far too friendly. He acted like he had known Erik for years. It made him bitter and angry to have this _boy_ presume to know about his life.

He grew to understand, though, the longer he spent time with Charles. He began to learn how the other man's youthful exterior belied a mind as aged and lonely as his own. He was older than his years, a lifetime of other people's thoughts teaching him to recognize pain, to find familiarity in horror and suffering. Charles could understand him, and the more they talked and the more Erik got to know him, the more he got to like him.

At first he thought that Charles gave him something to escape for. And then, later, he realized that Charles gave him something to stay for. Charles had faith in him. He believed. It was a wholly alien concept to Erik, who in his entire thirty-four years of life had never once had a single person believe in him. For someone whose entire existence had been a battle, finding someone who didn't want to fight him was completely new.

He never told Charles that he loved him in English. He told him in German, in Polish, in French and Spanish. He whispered it to him before he left the interview room for the week and at night, when they met in-between their minds. Charles knew what he meant every time, of course.

Erik lay on his cot, alone in his cell, and wanted to escape.

**Don't.**

**Even if I'm not going to actually do it I can still think about it.** Erik sighed at Charles voice in his head. **How are you tonight?**

**Fine. **A split second image of Charles in his bed flashed through Erik's mind. **Physical therapy was hard today, though.**

**That doctor pushes you too hard. I don't trust him.**

There's an echo-ey laugh. **You don't trust any doctors, Erik.**

**I trust you.**

**Mmmm. Well, one is a start.**

**I want to see you.**

He can feel a pair of phantom lips graze his cheek. **Soon. It's nearly Tuesday again.**

**It's three days away. I don't want to wait three days. I'm already waiting long enough, damn it.**

**We're only a few months away, Erik. Be patient. We're almost there.**

**I miss you.**

**I know.**

**Charles?**

**Yes?**

**Kocham cię.**

**I know.**

**Good night.**


	7. Chapter 7

Here's the last chapter, you guys! I just wanted to say thank you for being awesome. A big thanks to everyone who faved this story, or left a review, or just read it. You people give me the warm fuzzies. Please enjoy!

* * *

><p>Erik's clothes are folded up in a neat bundle, his turtleneck creased from sitting squished in a drawer. It feels alien as he pulls it up over his head, strangely tight after four years of baggy jumpsuits and loose t-shirts. His pants cling to his thighs and calves, but they're loose around the waist where he's lost weight and he has to fasten his belt as tightly as it'll go.<p>

His watch's batteries are long dead, the hands frozen at one fourteen PM as he empties the contents of the manilla envelope onto his palm. The metal sings as he levitates it for a moment, his lips curving up in a small smile before he lets it drop, not wanting the guards to see. He slips his childhood keepsake, the old coin, into his trousers pocket and feels the familiar weight of it against his leg. It feels as if he's in a dream, everything not-quite-fitting but definitely his all the same.

He doesn't make eye contact as he walks down the dimly lit hallway, passing by the guards that beat him not so long ago. They don't look at him as he goes by and he doesn't look at them- if you didn't know better, you would think that they had never seen him before in their lives. He's a different man now, as he nears the sliver of light that marks the door. He's free.

The gravel walk to the parking lot is surrounded on both sides by high fences topped with barbed wire, the natural extension of the walls that enclose the prison. Everything seems gray, but it's a natural light, the sun reflecting off white clouds gathering for rain. He squints, eyes accustomed to fluorescents and the dark. It's been a long time since the sky didn't flicker and buzz at him.

Charles waits outside the prison gates, huddled against the brisk November air in an over-large sweater and rubbing his gloved hands. A grin spreads out across his face as he sees Erik coming towards him, his cheeks red from the chill. His wheelchair gleams in the bright sunlight.

Erik raises a hand, and the gates swing open.

"You cut quite the dashing figure. I thought you looked good in orange, but clearly you can wear other colors as well." Charles calls out. Erik can't help the wave of sudden, atypical _happiness_ that wells up in him as he gets closer.

"If I never wear orange again, it'll be too soon." He grabs Charles' hand in his. It's the first time that their fingers have actually touched.

Charles presses a kiss to his knuckles, and his mouth is warm and dry despite the cold air. "How does it feel to be a free man?"

Erik bends and presses his lips to Charles', reveling in a sensation that is at the same time new and well known. "Fucking fantastic."

"Erik, language." He chides him gently, not meaning what he says at all. The other man waves a hand and Charles' wheelchair begins to move forward as he starts to walk, the two of them beside each other as they head to the car. They stop, Charles pausing as he reaches out to unlock the door and glancing up at Erik hesitantly. "Was it worth the wait?"

Erik kisses him again, and he doesn't think he could ever get tired of that one simple gesture. "It was worth every second." Their lips slide against each other, and Charles' hands squeeze at Erik's arms through his jacket, and for a moment it's like all the pain of the last four years never happened and all that's left is them.

**I love you**, Erik thinks.

And Charles thinks it back.


End file.
